


Of Witches and Men

by TrippinOverMyFandoms



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Divergence, Canon Typical Violence, Magic, Mild Swearing, TENSE family dynamics, Witches, fictional magic, frequent descriptions of death, graphic descriptions of injuries throughout, hallucinatory dreams, witchesters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29343045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrippinOverMyFandoms/pseuds/TrippinOverMyFandoms
Summary: Sam Winchester has a secret, one he's tried to keep out of his new life and away from his girlfriend for as long as possible, and it's a secret that may just cost him everything. Sam Winchester is a witch.For years he's tried to leave his past behind him, one he's come to fear no longer wants him, but a visit from his estranged brother may have just proven that untrue. Unwilling to accept it, he's forced to return home as tragic events lead to the life he made for himself going up in flames. Now Sam must fall back on his magically whimsical upbringing with the help of his rather eccentric family as he comes to find the supernatural world has very important plans for him.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Rowena MacLeod & Dean Winchester, Rowena MacLeod & Sam Winchester
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

# Chapter One

Inhale. Exhale. A slower rhythm than the rapid beat of his heart to calm himself as he pauses. The condensation from his breath is heavy in the frigid night air. It flows from his mouth with each rapid breath in swirling patterns. It’s the only indication he isn’t a ghost, stuck between one world and the next, in the cemetery. Though, with how cold night air has seeped into his bones, he feels as if he should be one of them. 

He can’t see them but he knows they’re there. He knows they’re there but they don’t seem to know, or even care, about his existence. The feeling is claustrophobic, they surround him on all sides, even though he can’t see them, he can feel them, hear them, even. Their voices talking and screaming so loud he can’t hear his heart pounding in his chest as he could before. There are so many that even if he were to try and tune in on one conversation he’d fail, yet each of them sounds so cynical. Despite all this, and the fear building in his chest, he pushes on. He has to find him.

A pained scream, that makes his heart come to a screeching halt, somehow makes it over all the noise, makes all the noise stop. All at once, as if it had been an orchestra conductor demanding his players to cease their music, the voices become quiet. The silence is deafening and he feels terrifyingly alone. He almost wishes for the thousands of voices to come back, wishes for anything else but the suffocating silence. 

“Sam!” Loud and horrifyingly desperate, the call of his name sounds magnified in the silence. He knows that voice, it matches the scream from before, he has to help him. Through the darkness, with no idea if he’s even going the correct way, he runs. The sound of pure agony urging him ever onward. He has no thought other than to find its source. 

He kicks at the tall grass as he goes, the long blades feeling like thin fingers reaching up from the ground to pull him down, like the earth beneath his feet knows he doesn’t belong here. 

His fight against it is futile as it has its way and soon he’s sent tumbling down, feet caught, tangled up in the grass, and sent hurtling face-first into the dirt. He’s narrowly missed hitting his head on a large stone, a headstone. A few more inches and he would have cracked his skull, then he really would have been one of them. Looking up, he can make out the inscription in the stone through the black of the night, John and Mary Winchester. They’re names he thinks he knows but can’t put faces to. No matter how hard he tries, he doesn’t know them, even if they share a surname. 

He begins to pick himself up, breathing ragged and he struggles to calm it, having an eerie feeling that if he doesn’t quiet himself then he’ll be caught. He doesn’t know what danger lurks in the shadows, just that he’s scared of it, just that needs to save his brother from it, “Dean!” he calls, desperately hoping for an answer, his fall leaving him disorientated, he needs to find direction again, a sound he can follow. He sits back on his knees listening, hoping to hear something, anything, in this silence even a single breath would do. 

His only answer is the continued silence. 

There’s a new sensation, one he’s yet to realize, a startling contrast to the cold night air that he’s not sure how he’s missed it. His hands are wet, and more disturbingly, sickeningly warm. His whole body feels like it’s shaking as his gaze slowly drifts down to his hands. He wants to throw up when he’s met with the sight. 

His hands are coated in thick blood. Looking further down, he’s horrified to find he’s not only covered in blood but kneeling in a large pool of it as well. He follows the puddle, turning his head to discover the source. Surely enough, there it lies behind him.

It’s now he makes the connection that the earth hadn’t sought to capture him with the blades of grass, it only meant to slow him down, to stop him, to save him. It didn’t want him to see this, it was the only thing here that was on his side. If only he had made this connection sooner. 

He scrambles backward, trying to get away from the scene, the horrible mutilation of someone he loves dearly. There on the ground behind him, in the center of all the blood, lies his brother, the corpse of his brother. Chest ripped open like the skin had been as thin as paper to the assailant. With the sternum exposed, he can see figures carved deep into the bone in a language he can’t read. He forces himself to look at him lying there, to bear that feeling of how he’s failed his brother, how he was too late and it’s all his fault. He forces himself to look him in the eye, only to find them horridly and  shockingly  black. 

Sam inhales sharply and sits up quickly, making his head spin and vision blurry. He puts a hand to his temple to ward off the oncoming migraine, avoiding closing his eyes, almost scared that if he does he’ll be back in that dream. 

Dreaming, Sam  _ hates  _ dreaming. Ever since he was a kid he’s had frequent dreams, horrible nightmares that leave him uneasy the next morning, often left feeling like he hadn’t slept to begin with. On and off for as far back as he can remember he’s had horrible dreams of death and losing people he loves, even the parents whose faces he doesn’t even remember. Awful things that had seemed so real and sometimes felt like they had happened. No matter what sort of charm or prayer he attempted, nothing ever seemed to stop them. They were persistent as he was stubborn. 

For a short time, they had stopped. His only relief had come when he moved away from home to go to college. For three blissful years, Sam had nights where he didn’t dream at all and if he did he didn’t remember it. All of that was gone far too soon. By his senior year, studying law at Stanford University, they started back up again. This time they consisted of people he didn’t know. They were strangers but he still dreamt of their deaths even though he hadn’t met a single one. He just considered himself lucky that so far of them had ever come true. If they had, he didn’t want to know. Now it was back to dreaming about losing his family. 

His wandering gaze brings him to the work that lay on his desk. Stacks of paperwork from a court case he had helped the state win, though, after the grueling process that took well over a month he didn’t much feel like a winner. Being a state attorney had turned out to be his dream job but unfortunately, after roughly five years, he was worried he’d become burnt out. The paperwork was the absolute worst and the most boring at that. So boring that over the years he was prone to overworking himself and falling asleep at his desk, just like the night before. 

With a heavy sigh, Sam begins to gather the work into neat stacks, hoping that by busying himself with cleaning up then he’ll forget about the dream, even if he hadn’t forgotten a single one since they started plaguing him. Ignorance was bliss in his case. 

When a certain piece of paper doesn’t give, he’s quick to realize the melted down candle still burning away. How it hadn’t burnt the whole apartment building down was beyond him. Maybe that luck held in its black colored wax had gone to preventing a fire. It’s a shame really since he had originally lit it to prevent his nightmare of the evening. He blows out the small flickering flame with disdain for the thing. He doesn’t know why he even bothers, nothing has ever helped the dreams.

He’s pulled out of his resounding hatred of the wax charm by a harsh knocking on his front door. It almost matches the beat of the headache he hadn’t been able to evade. Sam, reluctantly stands, legs wobbly from having been in a sitting position for so long. As he crosses the space between the wall his desk faces and the opposite side where the door is, it’s almost like he dares his legs to give out on him. They don’t and Sam considers it a small battle already won. 

Just as soon as he places his hand on the knob to greet his visitor, the door swings open all it’s own. In the doorway stands Jess, his long time girlfriend, and her keys swing loudly with the door. Sam is just as startled to see her there as she is that he met her at the door. He’s had nightmares about her too.

“Why did you knock?” He asks her, he’s used to her letting herself in, boundaries being seldom a concern between the two of them anymore, evident of this is how she walks in. As soon as he steps aside to allow her to enter, she removes her keys from the door and practically tosses them onto his kitchen counter once she’s through the doorway. “I figured you were still asleep,” she states, adjusting the tightness of her ponytail, a particular comfortableness in how she moves that’s come from years of being together, “you hadn’t answered my calls.” Sam realizes he hadn’t heard his phone go off at all. He’s not even sure where his phone is at the moment. Even more worrisome, he’s having a hard time remembering what he did as soon as he got home the night before. 

Short lapses in his memory weren’t uncommon but it’s not like they happened often. 

“Sam?” She has her hand placed gently on his shoulder, he realizes he hasn’t answered her, the silence must have been longer than he realized, “Are you alright?” she’s in front of him now, close enough he has to tip his head down just slightly to meet her gaze. She wasn’t short, rather he was considerably tall, but her short distance from him made the difference more obvious, “You have another one of those dreams?” Her voice is gentle yet full of concern, like she’s ready to drop everything to make sure he’s okay. 

Jess knew about the dreams, part of it at least. She had known since the first night they had spent together after graduating college when he woke up in the middle of the night after one of his nightmares. It wasn’t the last time either, there had been instances when he had dreams about losing her that felt so real, just like the others, that left him shaking and unable to form words or do much of anything other than hold her and remind himself that they were both still okay. 

Sam sighs softly, kisses her on the head, and tells her not to worry. “I’ll be fine, I’ve already started to forget it,” he lies to her with one of his best smiles that puts her at ease, allows it to be a lie to himself as well. He’s a firm believer in your lies can be truths if you believe them, even better when half of it is the truth. He knows he’ll eventually be fine, that much is true, over time the horrific imagery becomes an annoying nuisance of a memory. Sam also knows better than to withhold the fact that the dream happened at all from Jess, it’s better to admit it and put her worry at ease than to deny it happened to begin with, she always seemed to find out anyways. 

“I haven’t forgotten about our date plans,” He tells her proudly, attempting to steer their conversation to something lighter, more important, and, to him, more relevant. She’s not going to let it go, he knows that much, she’ll just bring up his troubles later, but for now, she goes with it, smiles, and tells him, “Then you need to hurry. Or lunch might become dinner,” It’s a joke he knows that much, but a look at the clock over his desk tells him that noon is fast approaching and he better get a move on. 

Another kiss, this time on her cheek, and he tells her he’ll be right back. Sam leaves her there in the main room as he makes the short journey to his bedroom just around the corner. The answer to what happened to his phone is answered when he opens the door and finds it sitting on the corner of his bed. He makes a mental note to grab it before he leaves.

Sam puts little thought into the clothes he pulls out of his dresser drawers. The only mindful moves he makes are to keep ziplock bags of various dried plants and an array of small colored candles hidden. Jess may not enter his room today but he doesn’t take the chance that he won’t forget to fix it when he gets home. He’s not ready for her to find the only bits of magic he’s kept around in his life since moving away from his family. 

He tries not to think of the altar tools in his bottom drawer that he keeps underneath clothes he’s outgrown. Sam hasn’t used them since he discovered his older brother Dean had hidden them in his suitcase during the move. He did his best to keep his upbringing out of this new life he’s made for himself. Although, he found it difficult to give it all up. It currently remains to be a considerably large factor in why he didn’t move in with Jess after all these years. There was little he kept from her, having a confident air of honesty in their relationship, but the nature of his upbringing was one of those things he swore to himself he wouldn’t share. 

He makes quick work of getting dressed and he’s able to return to her, freshly dressed and shoulder-length chestnut hair brushed, proudly having remembered to grab his phone on the way out of his room. “Ready?” he asks her, picking a light jacket off a hook by the door, watching as she gets down from her perch on one of his barstools and grabbing her keys off the counter as she goes. “I’ve been ready,” she teases, “Where have you been?” He can’t help but laugh and smile at her, taking her hand in his so they can walk out the door together. 

Jess was far better than any candle. Around her all the bad things seemed to go away, they didn’t matter to him when he was with her. Darkness, curses, nightmares, they all seemed unreal when they were together. That’s all he really needed. 


	2. Chapter 2

# Chapter Two

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Jess announces the second they exit the elevator and into the hall, practically pulling Sam along as they walk, arm in arm, returning to his apartment with a successful, yet unexpectedly eventful, lunch date in the books. What started as something so simple turned into a mildly exciting Saturday afternoon and it all started once Sam suggested a local business to try out for dessert. They could have gone home after, however, on the same block was a pet store that reminded Jess of a few things she wanted to get for her newly adopted cat. Neither of them were sure as to what led to the walk along the river that ran right in the middle of Sacramento, but it was now five o’clock in the late afternoon and they had decided to spend the rest of the evening together at Sam’s apartment.

“We should watch movies all night long, starting with that thriller I brought over for last weekend,” the movie meant for a night like tonight only they ended up drinking and got too distracted to even remember the film, “And then for dinner, I think you still have a frozen pizza from the same weekend,” Sam nods, confirming her assumption. 

“That’s fair, a calm evening to go with a relatively uneventful afternoon,” Sam smiles down at her approvingly, not expecting when Jess laughs almost sarcastically, rolling her eyes, and responding with, “‘Relatively uneventful?’ You drug me all over the city for five hours today.” Sam does his best not to laugh at her dramatics, he thought they hadn’t done much and had originally been the one to suggest spending the rest of the day back at his place, clearly, she didn’t think the same way, “I mean, I had fun but it was five hours Sam!” 

Sam begins to dig his keys out of his pocket, having neared the corner just before his apartment, a defense to her accusations at the ready, “With the traffic we hit on the way there, I think it was more like three hours. Not to mention we-'' he's suddenly cut off, unable to finish with his counterargument as Jess has stopped walking, holding him back, and hushing him harshly. Right away he notices her peeking around the corner at something. Sam does as told and stops in the hall, becoming immediately concerned with wondering what she’s spotted before him, even though he knows it could be anything from an animal loose in the hall to a dead body. Both situations have happened in his building, luckily the only one that occurred on his floor was when someone had left the window at the end of the hall open and a squirrel had found its way inside. Funnily enough, Sam had ended up working the murder case. 

“What’s wrong?” he drops his volume to ask, leaning to get a look around the corner as well but she stops him, “Jess,” he urges, not enjoying being out of the loop, it was his place of residence after all. She doesn’t answer him, just holds up a hand for him to wait, but before he can ask again, she whispers, “I think someone is trying to break into your apartment.” He’s not sure he’s heard her right at first.

Break into his apartment? If that was the case, Sam wasn’t going to let her stand there and hold him back longer. He pushes past her, just able to hear her ask, “Should we call the cops?” and, yes, technically they should, but Sam sometimes has a problem with acting first, think later. Essentially, he doesn’t want to wait to see if the intruder can actually break-in while they wait on the police. Jess tries to grab onto his sleeve as he rounds the corner, whisper shouting his name, but it’s no use, he’s already set his mind on it. 

Sure enough, there’s a man crouched at his door attempting to pick the lock. With no better plan in mind, as he doesn’t exactly want to get into a fistfight in the middle of the hallway, Sam decides to confront him in an attempt to scare the guy off, thinking that the guy might make a run for it once he realizes he’s caught, “Hey, man, I don’t know what you think you’re gonna find in there but I can guarantee it’s not-” he stops right in the middle of his speech, completely frozen in the hall. Sam suddenly realizes he recognizes the person trying to break into his apartment. 

The man, sufficiently spooked, quickly stands up and turns to face him. “Dean?!” Sam exclaims, just as surprised as the other at the encounter. He’s not sure how he managed to recognize him, especially now that Dean sports a couple of small piercings and a large Wiccan tattoo on his neck that Sam didn’t remember being there before. However, though the years had undoubtedly changed them both, his brother was still partly recognizable. 

Despite being obviously guilty, Dean couldn’t look more pleased with Sam’s arrival, practically grinning from ear to ear, “Hey Sammy,” he greets him like it hasn’t been forever since they last saw one another, like this isn’t the oddest thing to happen. Maybe to Dean, it isn’t. To Sam? This was the very last thing he could have ever expected. 

“What are you-,” Sam’s unable to wrap his head around it, he hasn’t seen Dean in so long, yet, here he is, older and seemingly a completely different person than the last time he saw him, not that he himself didn’t look mostly different, “What the hell are you doing here?” He asks of him, less enthused about this than Dean. Out the corner of his eye, he can see Jess who’s braved coming around the corner, keys tucked between her fingers as if she’s ready to use them as a weapon. He contemplates sending her back. 

As his response, Dean holds up a brown plastic bag, like the kind he probably got it from some gas station, “Didn’t wanna leave all this stuff out front of the door, I thought I could just, you know, put it inside and make sure you got it. Maybe leave a note or something.” and then he shrugs like the exchange isn’t abnormal, as if they’ve kept in touch over the years and just dropping by unannounced is casual, like it was for Jess to do so. Sam thinks about telling him off, maybe even yelling at him, telling him to go away, it’s bad enough Dean never bothered to look for him but it’s another thing entirely that he’s brought… Sam doesn’t know what he brought but he has a feeling it’s not going to be deemed normal either. 

Before he can decide whether or not he’s going to berate Dean for his sudden appearance, he’s reminded that Jess has joined them when she asks, “This is Dean? As in… the older brother I swore you made up?” Similar to Dean, she doesn’t sound tense and, apparently, it’s normal to run into long lost family members in the hallway of your apartment building, someone had just forgotten to tell Sam. It only frustrates him more when Dean laughs at her question, of course he’d think that’s funny. He had always let himself think they’d get along if they ever somehow met, clearly he was right. 

It was true, however. Sam had kept his Wiccan connections and practices a secret from her but he did tell her he had a family. He had told her about his brother and how growing up Dean had always been rather protective of him and how close they had been close as kids. Despite a few detailed stories, she still made jokes about him not being real, all because Sam didn’t have a single picture of the family he claimed to have nor an explanation as to why they weren’t close anymore or why this brother never called. 

Sam can tell, just by looking at her that she’s picked up on their tension, his tension at the very least. It’s written on her face. It hasn’t been but a few seconds and she’s already analyzing them. Jess was one of the most brilliant people he knew and in her career as a Juvenile Defense Attorney she was one of the best at reading people, it’s why he had such a hard time keeping things from her. On the opposite end of that, she was so understanding when he didn’t want to share. She was complexly perfect to him. 

A brief moment passes where none of them say anything, like some sort of standoff but in actuality, it’s an awkward moment and none of them seem to be sure of what to say or do next. Sam sighs, knowing it’s going to have to be him, being the only common factor and ultimate deciding choice here, “Dean was just leaving,” he announces, not even looking at his brother, who doesn’t even hesitate to add, “So I’m interrupting something,” barely giving him time to finish his sentence, which in turn angers Sam and it takes every ounce of patience left in him not to take this moment to decide to tell him off. Jess, however, is even quicker.

“No, no it’s fine,” her smile as she speaks is apologetic in nature, as if she’s the intruder in this situation. Both boys turn their attention to her, pending argument surprisingly postponed, “I’ve got that stuff I need to bring back to the cat. You two should... probably catch up.” Sam wants to argue with her, tell her that Dean can go so they can finish their day, he doesn’t even get the chance. She crosses the remaining length of the hall between them to give him a quick goodbye kiss before walking away and leaving them, waving at Dean and telling him it was, “nice to meet you!” as she goes. 

Sam watches her leave, thinking about how he’d much rather be going with her than still standing in the hallway with Dean. It should have been a no-brainer that Jess would want them to spend some time together, she was rather big on family, a great factor in why she chose the career path that she did. Sam just wishes he had remembered that in time so maybe he could have reworked the situation to dodge the bullet that is his brother. 

“So,” Sam starts, ignoring Dean to unlock his apartment door, might as well go inside and have whatever future argument is sure to come inside rather than out in the hall, “What’s so important that you decided to, you know, show up after thirteen years?” It doesn’t feel like that great of an amount of time when he says it, but Sam hasn’t forgotten the nights he spent missing his family, longing for his younger years, and blaming himself for their absence in his life. At this moment he’s not sure if he’s more upset with Dean for never contacting him or if he should be upset with himself for leaving. 

He’s still polite, of course, standing aside to allow Dean to enter first, who’s not shy about checking the place out, looking it over top to bottom like he’s considering robbing him. “You live here?” He’s not impressed, nose scrunched in distaste as if he had imagined him living somewhere nicer, “It’s small. Not much bigger than that dorm I helped you move into,” Dean shrugs off his coat and places it onto the kitchen bar, followed shortly by the mysterious bag he’d brought for him.

Dean isn’t wholly wrong, the living room, without counting the connecting kitchen, is the same size as the dorm he lived in during college, though, the singular bedroom and bathroom made it just slightly bigger. Sam thinks about how it doesn’t really matter to him, he didn’t need a huge apartment or even a whole house. Between work and spending time with Jess, he was hardly home anyway. 

He follows behind Dean, opting to leave his coat on and keys in hand after he’s shut the door behind them, half hoping this won’t take all day and he can visit Jess at her apartment for the night. 

“Kind of empty,” Dean still has things to say about it, as if he’d rather judge Sam for his life choices than actually get to the point, which greatly annoys Sam. He rolls his eyes, having to take a deep breath as not to get irritated with him too quickly, but he’s afraid he’s already reached that point, “Look, not everyone wants to decorate as an adult like they did when they were a teenager. Now just…,” he has to take another breath, steady himself for a moment or he’s going to say something he doesn’t mean to, “Just tell me why you’re here and we can move on.” Even though he’s the one who says it, he’s not sure if he means to move on with the conversation or move on with their lives altogether, but with the way things have been going, he has a feeling this is going to end with them going their separate ways again. 

Dean doesn’t say anything, just pokes at the bag he’s brought him. Sam’s hesitant but pulls it closer to himself to analyze its contents. The plastic rustles loudly as he pulls it apart, looking inside to find an assortment of dried ingredients, various liquids, and a brand new black candle. “I was upstate when Rowena called,” Dean says, watching him pick through the items, Sam does his best to hide the look of disdain for the bag’s contents, “She told me to pick that stuff up and bring it to you. That you needed it.” 

Drawing his own conclusions, Sam asks, “Astral projection?” tying the top of the bag together once he’s confident everything is still inside and none of it has fallen out. He’s unsure of how he feels, knowing it’s not resentment but it feels close to that. He doesn’t hate his family for taking care of him, it’s just how they’ve gone about it. He hasn’t spoken to either of them in so long and then out of nowhere he’s being magically watched and brought tools for a trade he barely even practices anymore. It makes him wonder how long she had been watching him like that. It meant they thought about him at least. 

Dean nods, confirms his suspicions, “It’s how I knew where to find you,” he states, watching as Sam lifts the bag and steps a few feet to drop it into a sliver trashcan set up against a nearby wall, his expression turning from mildly irritated to angered and confused. Sam is apathetic about it as he tells him, “Thanks for the thought, really, but I don’t need it.”

“I find that hard to believe, I really do,” Dean laughs but it’s more of a disbelieving scoff. He’s quick to turn around to point out the burned down candle on Sam’s desk opposite the room from them, “clearly you need it if you’re burning a candle that far down.”

“No, I don’t.” Sam snaps, glaring at the spent wax still melted on the wood, hatred still running in his veins for the thing, “You know, when I started college I didn’t want to bring magic into it because it felt like cheating,” it’s a battle to keep his voice down and level, he’s always had a hard time with his temper but this time he’s not going to let it rule him, “And I tried, I tried to make it work but I’m done. I’m done with magic, it doesn’t work how I need it to, it never has.” Now that he says it out loud, admitting it to himself and to another human being, that helplessness feels so much more real and he despises it. If Dean had never shown up at his door then he wouldn’t feel this way, it’s hard not to resent him for it, especially with the already existing anger. 

“You know that’s not how it works, definitely not for us,” Dean’s quick to defend magic, he always has been, he acts like he owes his life to it, and maybe he does judging by the stories Sam has heard growing up. But Sam never understood it like Dean, he doesn’t get why magic was always strongly encouraged of them only to have a handicap because they weren’t naturally born to it or borrowers of a demon’s power. He used to think it was a challenge and enjoyed the testing of his capabilities when he was younger, now he only saw it as an annoying inconvenience. 

There’s a pause, neither of them knows what to say next, where to steer the conversation, if they want to leave it as it was, to continue fighting, or change it entirely. Sam isn’t going to wait on Dean to decide, he’s had enough, he wants out of this as quickly as possible. “You’ve done what you came here for.” he clears his throat, somehow still able to look Dean in the eye as he speaks, “If you’re finished I’d like to catch up with Jess.” 

Another pause, Dean slowly nodding his head, he hopes he’s going to take the exit, leave and go back home so they can go their separate ways, but Sam should know better than to hope. 

“I see how it is,” one last-ditch prayer to whatever gods were out there that Dean wasn’t going to continue, he’s only to be disappointed, however, “Couldn’t help but notice you told her about me, must be pretty serious. You know how dangerous a relationship like that can be, Sammy.”

Sam has heard enough, he’s tired of Dean judging him for wanting something different, for wanting better. It’s why he never reached out to Dean, he knew what would happen, it just took thirteen years to occur. 

“What was I supposed to do Dean?” He lashes out, voice raised, yelling now, hoping his neighbors won’t call the cops, “I don’t want to be alone, that’s not the kind of life I want, I came here to avoid that life!”

“You could have come home!” This is the first time in the last few minutes that Sam has realized how deep Dean’s voice has gotten, it’s raspy and angry and sounds like a lion’s roar. It’s also here that Sam realizes that he doesn’t know the other man standing in front of him. He realizes how much they’ve both changed over the years. They might have gotten along well as children and been close as teenagers but that wasn’t the case anymore. He’s not even sure that if he were to go back home if things would be the same, if they would still take him back, and if not, how he would deal with that.

Dean won’t look at him anymore, he’s broken eye contact with him, Sam can’t blame him, he’s cast his own gaze at the false marble countertop. He sighs heavily, there’s no going back for him, he knows it, “I think you should go,” he says quietly. His brother doesn’t need any more prompting, before Sam can even finish the sentence he’s already started towards the door, leaving on his own and slamming the door behind him. 

Sam mutters, swears underneath his breath, kicks the kitchen cabinet in front of him, then runs his hands through his hair. He had a chance, he could have made things better. Instead, he let his fears control him and make everything he worried about come true. He should have said ‘thank you’ and waited to throw it away when Dean left or maybe buried it with the rest of the stuff in his drawer. They could have reconnected, gone out and gotten some drinks, they could have talked like brothers. 

That was all gone now. 

Sam let himself feel sorry for about twenty minutes after Dean stormed off. Eventually moving from his spot in the kitchen to mope on the couch and internalize any depression he felt over it. He didn’t want to be sad, didn’t want to cry, this wasn’t the kind of situation to cry over. He was more angry than anything. Angry at Dean, yes, but mostly angry with himself. 

Ultimately, he decided enough was enough and he had enough of sulking. He still wanted to go see Jess, hoping that by spending time with her he’d feel better, that it would take his mind off of it. She was, quite literally, the light of his life, and if he wasn’t still so scared about how he would potentially ruin it, he would marry her. Everything was better when he was with her.

He drove to her apartment, only ten minutes, on a good day, from where he lived. By now the sun had begun to set and he already distracted himself by focusing solely on the drive that had become muscle memory instead of what happened with Dean, which refused to leave him and still lived in the back of his mind no matter how hard he tried to repress it. 

Somewhere between the third stoplight and her front door, he’s stopped thinking altogether. He had been on auto-pilot and some would consider him lucky that he arrived at her apartment in one piece. 

Sam stares at the wood of her front door, rolling his shoulders to try and relax, to try and leave all the deprecation on this side of the apartment, he wasn’t going to bring it into something he hoped to be uplifting. It even doubled as a defense. If he didn’t leave it behind him then he’d be sure to break when she would undoubtedly ask him how it went. He didn’t want to bring up years of emotions he’s so carefully kept down now.

When he’s ready, it’s easy to find his key for her apartment, it’s yellow with a geometrical pattern on it, she had chosen it just for him when she got it copied at one of those little kiosks. Such a bright color doesn’t take much effort to search for compared to the silver and bronze of his other keys.

He grins down fondly at it as he uses it to unlock her door, feeling better already. He found it bizarre how someone could bring so much light into his life and how someone else just being around could make him feel so horrible about so many things. Who needed magic when emotions did most of the work. He had supposed that’s why Rowena and Dean lived by having as few connections as possible, only, in Sam’s case, his romantic connection provided him with far more happiness than his familial ones had as of late.

He walks in without knocking, they came and went in each other’s apartments like it was nothing, it was the closest they ever got to living together. Despite living almost on opposite ends of town from one another, that freedom to come and go was enough. For him, at the very least, it was enough. Sam wouldn’t doubt if she sometimes wasn’t happy with the lack of progression in their relationship, but she had always been so patient with him and hadn’t said a word of protest.

“Jess?” He calls out when he doesn’t immediately see her in the living room, walking in to find the space empty of anyone except him. Lamps and TV on, though odd, wasn’t wholly worrying, it just meant she could be somewhere else in the apartment, like her bedroom or the spare which they often joked was the cat’s room. As a matter of fact, he didn’t think he saw the cat anywhere either. It was odd that the thing hadn’t come to greet him at the door as it had ever since she took it in. He absently wondered if maybe it had gotten out and perhaps Jess had gone off after it, maybe even just missing each other. He takes off his jacket and hangs his keys on the key hook by the door, figuring, if that were the case, he could always wait on her. 

He’s going to sit down on the couch and get comfortable while he waits when something in the small hall just off the living room catches his eye. 

Cautiously approaching, at first he’s not sure what he’s looking at. An end table, one from her bedroom, is set up with a black and red cloth draped over it. Carefully placed on top, like someone took the time and care to arrange it all, are lit candles, illuminating the dark space in a dancing soft yellow glow. Crystals, an animal skull, and bloodied knife accompany the candles, placed along the points of a symbol on the cloth he doesn’t recognize. He knows what it is, even the newest of witches could identify an altar. But this one? Something about it is chillingly dark and doesn’t sit well with Sam.

“Jess?” He calls her name again, heart rate rising, as far he’s ever known she wasn’t in occult practices, the altar couldn’t belong to her, especially not something so sinister. He’s forced to draw the horrible conclusion that she wasn’t alone, that something else may have arrived before him. 

The door to Jess’ bedroom is closed but under it, between the wood of the door and the carpeted floor, he can see light, a bright glow similar to the candles in the hall but so much more intense. He sidesteps the altar, burying the thought that maybe he’s just discovered his girlfriend wasn’t as sweet and as innocent and as pure as he had thought, that the light in his life hid dark secrets. 

He reaches out and grabs the doorknob, pulling his hand back sharply as soon as his skin makes contact with the metal, a burning sensation running from his fingertips to radiate in his whole body, similar to having touched a hot stove. Alarms go off in his head, fight instinct taking over every other thought. Something wasn’t right, Jess wasn’t okay. Without thinking, he breaks the door down, putting as much force as he can as he barges at the wood, shoulder first and causing more pain to his body, insignificant compared to the danger she could be in. 

The sight he’s met with once the door is down makes Sam wish he were dreaming. He can’t swear to it that he isn’t, that he hadn’t fallen asleep on the couch and this was just a dream. But the heat that rushes him through the open doorway is enough to tell him he isn’t. He’s felt vivid temperatures in his dreams but this is enough to make him aware he’s very much awake. 

Jess lies on top of the bed, clothes and bedsheets stained a dark deep red, a stark contrast to the bright orange and yellow flames that completely engulf the room from floor to ceiling, an intense blaze that’s blinding. Curtains, carpet, her body, swallowed up quickly by the unforgiving and rapidly growing fire, so rapid it’s reached him and the door, if he lingers any longer he’s sure to be consumed by it as well. He has to flee, to save himself where he was too late to save her. 

Sam turns for his escape, met with the same heat from the room, in his distraction the front room has caught fire as well, the altar and hall supernaturally untouched by the destruction. If he hurries he has a small window to make it to the door before it’s too late. 

Smoke quickly fills the air, forcing him to choke on it, slowing down his haste, he can’t help but feel like it wants him to fail, of course it does, fire selfishly claims whatever it touches. He knows this like second nature, he’s had dreams about it, knows fire stole the family Dean told him stories of when they were young. 

He wouldn’t let it claim him too.

Much of the complex has caught now, Sam feels helpless as he watches it burn from the parking lot. He wonders if he could have stopped it, if he had been earlier if he could have saved her. Maybe if he told Dean to leave to begin with then she’d be safe with him, maybe right about now they’d be laying on the couch together at his apartment, maybe he’d be holding her in his arms instead of feeling like he might as well have died too knowing he’s lost her. He wonders if he had arrived at the apartment any sooner if it would have changed things or if they would have burned together. Maybe he should have stayed and died along with her...

No, no he still had things to live for, people who loved him and cared about him even if every day his head told him otherwise. 

The phone he holds to his ear rings loudly but doesn’t drown out how deafeningly his heartbeat is. He prays the number is right, he hasn’t called it in years but he still knew the seven digits as well as his own, as well as he knew Jess’. It’s his only option, his last resort, his only saving grace from the heat he swore he could still feel despite being so far away.

The line picks up at the very same moment he sees him across the parking lot, looming by the black car he hasn’t seen in so long. A fond feeling of home clenches at his already aching heart. He speaks into the phone, suddenly feeling like the timid child who relied on the safety of his older brother again, “Dean?”


	3. Chapter 3

#  Chapter Three

**_February 20th, 1997_ **

The thin air is cold enough that water would freeze instantly if you poured it from a glass, an even colder wind carrying itself swiftly down the school hall... and Sam isn’t even wearing a coat. 

It doesn’t bother him much, he feels as if he belongs in the cold, feels as if he belongs in the dingy, dark halls of this school, dim lights flickering to the beat of his heart, building groaning in time with his shallow breaths. It tells him he’s home here in the gloom. It invites him, coaxes him further into its icy embrace. 

But he’d desperately rather be anywhere else. 

Despite how badly he wants to run away, he’s forced to obey it. As long as he’s here, as long as he’s asleep, he belongs to it, helpless to do whatever it wants him to. There’s no escape no matter how hard he tries to fight it, once he’s there he’s defenseless until it’s done with him, until he sees what it wants him to see. 

What little light there is fails and he’s plunged into nothing but pure shadow, obscuring his vision to the point he’s not sure if his eyes are even open at all. It’s become angry at him, he hasn’t done what it wants, he hasn’t run, hasn’t walked onward, and now it’s punishing him. Shrill, high-pitched screams of at least a thousand pierce powerfully through the darkness and he covers his ears quickly lest they begin to bleed from the pitch of them all combined. He can still hear their cries through his palms, the sound so overwhelming he falls to his knees, painfully colliding with the thin linoleum. A punishment fitting of his crime.

It only lasts momentarily, the horrifying harmony they created fading out slowly into nothing until the only sound is his own breathing and the groaning of the building, echoing together in unison. The darkness remains just until he’s realized that his eyes are squeezed tightly shut, he must have closed them in a vain attempt to shut out the screams. 

Slowly, he removes his palms from his ears and forces his eyes open, gaze immediately locked on the smear of blood staining the floor before him. He wants to close his eyes again, force them shut, and pray he wakes up even if that’s never once worked for him in the past. But it wants him to see the blood, wants him to follow the trail it’s made just for him. It was a cruel master. 

If he wants to wake up he has to do what it commands. 

Slowly he stands, knees aching in protest from their previous collision with the floor and he vaguely wonders if they’ll be bruised when he wakes up, or if he’ll at least feel a reflection of the pain. He doesn’t want to but he still compels himself onward down the hall, blood trail guiding his steps in the correct direction. He was scared of what it would lead to, the things his dreams wanted him to see were never good on any occasion, some were worse than others, he could only hope this wouldn’t be the worst yet. Each step means he grows closer to the horrors it has waiting for him and his heart rate rises, the overhead lights begin to fade in and out along to the unsteady beat, the flashing makes him dizzy and sick. 

He walks for what seems like miles, every nerve in his body full of dread and rising fear the closer he gets. He knows he’s reached it when just ahead the trail abruptly stops exactly in front of a wall of lockers, metal doors full of dents and deep scrapes, marred like the rest of the school. All except one pristine door shut tightly in waiting. 

This is what it wants. It wants him to open it. It has laid it out perfectly for him and he knows as soon as he sets his eyes on it. He doesn’t know exactly why. It could be a simple offer at escape or it could conceal something dark, maybe for once it’s protecting him from whatever is inside but its cruel humor still tempts him with curiosity by making it different. A cruel master indeed.

The lights cease their flashing and remain in a stagnant dimly illuminated state, severing from the harmony it has with his heartbeat. The building, even, ceases its moaning, causing his ragged breaths to echo along the empty halls. It stills and lies in wait with anticipation to see what he’ll do. 

With a shaky hand, he reaches out to open the door, knowing he has to see what is concealed within to finally be free of this nightmare, even if what waits for him will be more horrifying than things were already. The metal is frozen and slick with a thin layer of ice under his fingertips as he pulls at the handle, biting at his skin and making it feel numb with cold. The door gives easily, too easily, and swings open of its own accord once the latch is free. It flies from his hand and the force of it knocks him back to fall to the floor, metal slamming loudly against the neighboring lockers.

He’s met with a terrifying sight that causes him to gasp aloud in pure fear. 

Staring down at him is a boy who couldn’t be much older than he was. He had been shoved, no, forced into the tiny space, shoulders squished at an uncomfortable angle to be able to fit, and a plastic bag was wrapped around his head, tied tightly to his neck. Though the plastic had become fogged, a mere memory of his final breaths, he could see the boy’s skin was deathly pale. His chest did not move and his obscured eyes did not blink, the boy was very obviously dead. 

He’s paralyzed to the spot where he’s fallen, looking up at the corpse that looks down upon him, bulging eyes still pleading for his life, begging for a rescue that would never come.

“Sam! Sammy! Sam, come on man, get up,” someone’s calling his name, pushing against his still body and the sudden movement is enough to pull him from his dream. He sits up violently with a sharp intake of breath, so deep it was like he had been starved of it. “Whoa, hey, take it easy,” now that he’s awake he recognizes the voice. It’s Dean. Of course it was, he hadn’t been dreaming anymore, he was safe now. Dean puts a hand on his back to steady him and Sam is grateful for it, leaning against the support as he takes a moment to calm himself. 

“You alright?” Dean says and it’s a question easier asked than answered. A shrug is the only answer Sam can give, pushing him away now that he’s somewhat caught his breath. He doesn’t want to lie but he doesn’t want to worry him by telling him the truth. Even if he did, how was he supposed to describe his dream to his brother? Dean already knew he had bad dreams, for as far back as he can remember he’s helped him with a simple spell to prevent them on most nights. But he never told him how bad they could be, how bad they had gotten as he grew older, and he wasn’t about to start now. He cared about Dean almost as much as Dean cared about him and he decided it was better if only one of them suffered from the nightmares. His older brother already worried about him too much.

Dean doesn’t seem content with his shrug. He looks him over before he finally accepts it’s the only one he’ll get. “Better get ready,” he says, leaving Sam’s side to round the bed and head for the bedroom door, “I let you sleep in some so you got maybe fifteen minutes before we gotta go. I’ll wait out in the car for you.” 

Once he’s left him alone, Sam frees himself from the blankets he’s become tangled in, quickly noticing how his clothes stick to him and how he hadn’t realized he had been sweating. His dream had been frightening but he didn’t think it was that bad. At least he hadn’t woken up screaming. Upon standing he also notices that there’s no pain in his knees, not like he thought they would when he fell in his dream. It comes as a relief, only cementing the difference between reality and nightmare. 

“What?” Sam asks irritably when he notices out of the corner of his eye that Dean hasn’t left. He’s stopped in the doorway, watching him almost as if he’s expecting him to break at any second and he wants to be there when it happens. “I’m fine, okay?” He hopes that if he says the words then Dean will believe him, making a show of stretching out his arms and twisting his back until it pops and he no longer feels stiff. 

Dean’s hesitant, hovering between staying and leaving, but he gives it up and says, “Just… make sure you tell Rowena about that dream, okay?” knowing that if Sam couldn’t tell him then he could at least tell Rowena. She would know what to do and she would know how to help, she had never failed them before. 

Dean finally leaves, shutting the door behind him, the faded tapestry tacked to the back floating in the breeze the movement created. Sam’s grateful for the privacy as he’s finally able to let his walls down, free to feel the lingering dread without worrying about someone else. He pushes his palms to his eyes, trying to force out the images that still live in the back of his mind. He hasn’t cried after a dream in a while, not since the last time he dreamed of Dean dying in front of him, but the things he saw while he was asleep still greatly haunt him. He still doesn’t let himself cry, he’s seen worse before, and he still had to get ready for school.

Twenty, no, fifteen minutes. Dean said he had fifteen minutes. He looks over his shoulder at the ornate clock hanging above his desk, its thin hands pointing to a few minutes past seven forty-five. Dean really had let him sleep in. He sighs, now fully at the mercy of a schedule he set months ago, if they were going to be on time then he had to get ready now. Sam winces when he steps off the decorative rug beneath his bed and his warm feet hit the cold wooden floor. His whole body shivers almost violently and he’s uncomfortably reminded of the dream.

He lazily picks through the clothes in his dresser, minutes passing by one after the other as he mulls over what to wear for the day as if it’s a laborious decision. Realistically it shouldn’t have taken him more than seconds to pick the pale blue long-sleeved shirt and the jeans that still lay on his floor from the day before. Any spare seconds he has after changing he uses to water the plants in his room. The fern by the bed, the tall leafy one next to the dresser, the mint on the desk, and the ivy that hung from the ceiling all get sufficiently drenched before he retrieves the gray wool coat slung over the metal bed frame and his backpack seated on the floor just beneath it, hastily exiting the room and navigating the hall on his way out to Dean.

Descending the stairs into the living room, Sam is quick to notice Rowena is nowhere to be found in the open concept that was downstairs level. As he headed for the front door, weaving through the furniture and careful not to knock into any of the tall plants with his backpack that he’s slung over his shoulder, he still keeps an eye out for her, not particularly wanting to relive his dream so soon. No matter how brief the discussion might be, she surely would have wanted to question him about it, assuming his worries were correct and that Dean had said something to her. It seems that, for now, he’s at least dodged that bullet. 

Yet another reminder of his dream meets him when he opens the front door, cold air rushes at him and surrounds him once he’s fully outdoors. It seems that no matter how hard he tries to put it out of his mind there is no escape, he thinks, as he pulls his coat tighter around himself, cheeks and nose flushing with warmth to combat the frigid temperature. He steps in the grass to avoid the slippery ice that covers the front walk, relishing in the oddly satisfying loud crunches of the ground beneath his feet during his walk to the car. The second he touches the cold metal of the door handle, Sam wishes he had thought to wear gloves, though he decides not to go back in to retrieve a pair because they needed to get going. 

As soon as the door opens he’s met with a brief fog and a gush of warmth that tells him Dean has the heat on. Sam is quick to get in, tossing his backpack to the floor and shutting the door behind him as fast as possible, instantly reveling in the warmth as he sinks into the leather seat. Dean sits in the driver’s seat where he had been waiting for him, ceasing tapping his hands on the leather steering wheel to the beat to whatever song he had been playing only to turn down on his brother’s arrival. 

No sooner than Sam has buckled the seat belt does Dean shove something in his face. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t realize he’s put it literally in his face because Sam notices the movement of the car and realizes he’s already started driving, car momentarily fishtailing on the slick driveway. He reaches up and moves his arm out of his vision as Dean says, “Grabbed this for you on the way out, I know I kinda rushed you so I figured you might want something to eat before we get there,” Dean watches him, momentarily taking his eyes off the road to properly hold it for Sam to see. 

It’s a pair of pop-tarts, he can tell that now, still wrapped up in their shiny silver wrapper. His stomach clenches just thinking about eating them and he contemplates turning them down as a sudden wave of nausea hits him. He takes them anyway, not wanting Dean to worry about him more than he most likely already does. Sam feels like he has to further prove to him he’s okay, even if he doesn’t, so he unwraps it and takes the smallest bite he can convincingly manage. He’s beginning to wonder if the feeling in his stomach had been from hunger, taking another experimental bite to find that sure enough, he’s already feeling better.

Sam settles himself further into the seat, if it’s even possible, letting himself get lost in the white and gray scenery that was winter in their dreary little corner of Maine as it passes them by in the windshield. Dean turns the music back up and resumes his mock percussion performance on the steering wheel like he did every time he drove the black Chevy Impala. 

He never said anything, even if it sometimes got annoying or if he had heard enough of the same fifty songs over and over because Sam knew how important the old car and the old music were to Dean. It helped his older brother feel close to the parents they lost so long ago. Sam didn’t remember them, he had been far too young, but he still understood the longing he had for that connection. 

He must have disassociated enough that the drive from home to school feels shorter than he remembers, zoned out so much between the piled snow on the edges of the road and the gathering storm clouds above, rain slowly beginning to fall making him wonder if the roads will ice, keeping them from getting home. And he’s only made it through half of his first pop-tart.

Dean has stopped the car just outside the side entrance, the one closest to Sam’s first class. The familiar grind of the gears sounds as he switches from drive to park. Sam is about to pull the handle and open the door but Dean turns to look at him, “Alright look, I shouldn’t have to remind you, you’re pretty good about it but, you know the drill Sammy, no magic at school,” his expression couldn’t be more serious, Sam almost feels bad for rolling his eyes. Every day his brother delivers the same speech like he’s the one who’s likely to get into trouble when it should be the other way around. If either of them were going to use magic to get ahead in highschool it was going to be Dean. 

“Yeah, three more months and you won’t have to tell me that again,” Sam remarks, getting out of the car and once again greeted by the cold, only this time with the rain it feels like tiny needles poking him wherever the small droplets hit his exposed skin. 

“You what I mean,” Dean takes his turn to roll his eyes, “Just stay out of trouble and I’ll see you later.” He barely has time to finish before Sam closes the door on him, just narrowly avoiding closing the straps of his backpack in the door. He doesn’t wait for Dean to drive off as he turns to make his way into the school, he’s bitter he had to leave the warmth of the car so soon and is far more than ready to be inside, he’s not going to waste time watching him park on the other side of the building in the middle of freezing rain. 

At ten minutes past noon, Sam sits at a benched table looking out over a sea of at least four hundred, give or take, students as he waits on Dean. He listens to the storm outside as it rages on, one that has been slowly building since the early morning and officially starting roughly an hour ago. The rapid pitter-patter of the rain on the metal roof is annoying and only amplified by the tall walls and vaulted ceiling of the cafeteria. It almost drowns out the hundreds of conversations being held all at once, combating with the rattling noise the windows make when the wind blows in just the right direction and the large booms of thunder that shake the weaker parts of the large structure. 

Completely off guard, lost somewhere between the noises in the room and the silence of his thoughts, Sam nearly jumps out of his seat when he feels the tapping on his left shoulder.

He whips his head around to locate the source only to come up empty, quickly turning to the other side just in time to catch the swift movement of Dean as he sets himself opposite Sam at the table, scowling at the smirk his older brother wears on his face, obviously very pleased with his prank.

“Calm down, Sammy. I was just messing with you,” Dean states, tone teasing and light-hearted, never being one to pass up the opportunity to mess with him if he could, “Here,” he adds, reaching into his pocket for something before tossing it on the table between them. A handful of light brown squares in shiny clear wrapping tumble and bounce on the surface before coming to rest in front of Sam. He swipes them for a closer look, and though they’re a little squashed and slightly melted, it’s clear to him that they’re pure caramel, his favorite. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Dean goes on, and if he hadn’t said anything Sam might not have realized how long it had taken him to arrive at their usual spot in the lunchroom, time passed differently when you weren’t paying it much attention, “I was trying to trade my way up with a few of the tables to get them for you. Baseball team decided they were gonna be dicks about it but I eventually cracked them.” 

Sam grins, pleasantly surprised and just short of proud that Dean has used his popularity for him. Despite that he hasn’t eaten anything since the half pop-tart in the car, he unwraps one of the candies and pops it into his mouth, shoving the rest in his pocket for later. “Thanks,” He tells him, teeth already starting to stick together from the sticky confection, watching as Dean politely and coolly shooing away his admirers.

Sometimes he forgot just how popular his brother was. Dean was rather charismatic and outgoing so it made perfect sense, he knew well over half of the students and several of the teachers. However, Sam knew it was because Rowena had taught them that having connections could be beneficial was good but no one could ever fully be trusted. That lesson had been the entire reason for their singulal year in the public school system before they would return to her private teachings. 

Dean’s attention is quickly returned to Sam, unceremoniously placing his elbows on the table and resting his head in his hands, “So, you got anything interesting in your lineup today?” 

“We’re going to watch part of a movie in English,” Sam replies with a shrug, thinking the event to be unimportant whereas Dean appears almost jealous, “Goes with a book we had to read,” he thinks about eating another caramel but decides against it, if he saves them he can eat them during the movie, have something to think about like focusing on opening the wrappers quietly other than a plotline he’s already read. Sam enjoyed movies but enjoyed books far more and didn’t see the point in watching a, often poor, film adaption for something he’s read. 

Dean lets his arms fall with a harsh thud onto the table, a mock incredulous look face. He was jealous after all. “Lucky,” he scoffs, “I’ve got a test that period, who does tests on a Thursday? Maybe I’ll come crash your movie,” his frown turning into a devious sort of grin as he playfully punches Sam’s shoulder to which he retaliates by leaning across the table and shoving him back. “What are you watching?” He finishes.

At the very same moment he opens his mouth to respond, the loudest boom of thunder he’s ever heard in his whole life sounds, instantly silencing the whole cafeteria. Only a moment later a second one follows, long and drawn out, power going out and smothering them all in complete and utter darkness. Shrill screams interrupt the momentary silence and it takes everything inside him not to cry out himself. 

Sam had never been afraid of monsters, he had grown up knowing they were real and that some people even considered witches monsters, he was almost at peace being one of them. And he had never been afraid of the dark, as he knew nothing could ever harm him as long as he was with Dean and Rowena who were his greatest protectors. But Sam was afraid of his dreams. He was afraid of how vivid they were, he was afraid they would come true, and in this very instant his breath was stolen away because, for the first time since the dreams had started, his dreams had predicted something. 

If his nightmares could predict the power outage and the sudden screams then he didn’t want the rest to be true. He didn’t know if he believed in God or even his variants, but he prayed he wouldn’t be met with the rest of his terrifying dream. 

What seems like forever is only a few seconds, Sam sits wide-eyed and trembling when the lights come back on. The screams cease, dying out almost instantly the light returns, and conversations start again. Dean is turned in his seat, back to his brother as he laughs at the short-lived fright of the rest of the students. His expression soon turns to worry when he shifts back to face Sam, whatever joke he had been about to make dying before it could even reach his lips. 

He calls his name a few times, Sam remains momentarily unresponsive, caught in the memories of the frightening imagery he had been subconsciously subjected to the night before. “Sam?! Hey, Sammy, come on man,” Dean calls to him, harsh and urgent, firmly placing his hand around his arm to steady him. It does the trick and Sam is brought back to the present, sharply pulled out of his thoughts, staring back at Dean feeling like a deer caught in headlights. “Are you okay?” Now that he has his attention his tone is gentle and calming, posture poised as if he’s ready to get up to get closer to him. 

Sam shakes his head ‘No’, his limbs going from stiff and tense to curling in on himself. He doesn’t know how to tell Dean about how the nightmares have slowly been eating away at him, how no matter what he did they always haunted him for hours. “Do you want me to take you home? It’s not gonna matter if we miss one day,” though his speech is calm, Sam can still tell Dean is worried, it’s the way that he looks ready to fight the whole world for him, even over something that can’t really be fought. 

But Sam doesn’t want him to worry, he feels guilty that Dean thinks he has to protect him all the time, that he thinks he has to sacrifice his own happiness just to make sure he is okay. That wasn’t his job, he wasn’t his father, they didn’t even have a father, they had Rowena, and she had always protected them no matter what, yet Dean still thought he had to keep Sam safe. He knew he’d only make it worse if he told him the things he dreamt about. 

“No,” Sam replies, voice coming out so quiet it was almost a whisper and he clears his throat before trying again, sitting up straighter and trying to convince himself just as much as he was Dean that he was okay, “No. I’m fine,” even if it was a lie, “It’s nothing, I’ll be fine.”

“Sam, that wasn’t nothing. You’re clearly not fine,” Dean cuts him off, barely gives him time to finish before he gets sternly protective, “Just say the word and we’re gone, I’m sure Rowena will understand,”

“I said I’m fine!” Sam’s irritated tone just short of a shout as he pushes him away. He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, doesn’t want to think about it, thinking maybe if he ignores it long enough it’ll go away entirely, maybe it was all just a coincidence and there really was no reason for him to be upset. It was fine, he was fine, and Dean was overreacting. 

Dean doesn’t seem to have anything to say after, if he did Sam doesn’t give him the chance. He leans over to the floor and retrieves his coat and backpack, leaving him with a blunt statement as emotionless as he can possibly muster, “I’ve got class.”

Sam doesn’t pay much attention to the film as it plays on the small tv at the front of the classroom. He has no desire to watch a movie adaptation of a book he’s read less than a week ago, instead he spends the time pondering and reflecting on what he’s read, preparing for the essay assignment he’ll no doubt be given by the end of the week. 

_ The Secret Garden. _ At around the middle of the book, Sam wondered at the similarities between himself and the main character, Mary Lennox. They had both been orphaned at a young age, sent off to live in a new, mysterious and whimsical life, and other than the natural curiosity and being considerably stubborn, the resemblances seemed to stop there. Sam wasn’t related to Rowena like Mary was to the family in the book, not as far as he knew. And unlike her, his life had real magic in it. He did have a garden in his backyard though, even if it was less of a garden and more like an overgrown collection of herbs and flowers essential in a magical brew. 

In the book, and what little he had caught of the movie, Mary is unloved by her parents. Sam is unable to compare whether or not his loved him, though Dean swears they had. He had been too young when they died and only knows what they look like from a picture or two that his brother owned. Rowena had told him his mother cared enough to seek her help in protecting him, so Sam assumed that’s what love was. Dean had always been protective and Rowena had always been careful in her teachings because it kept them safe, he couldn’t imagine it being anything else. He knew he loved Dean and he loved Rowena and he wouldn’t want to see them hurt, so he supposed he’d do the same for them. 

Despite a few similarities, Sam could think of far more differences. Such as, Mary’s new home had been strict and cold unlike his where he had never once felt that from growing up with a witch, no matter how many rules Rowena had set. Each of them were to keep him safe and he liked that comfort, it didn’t make sense in his mind to question what she said, she was so smart and he looked up to her, valuing her lessons above all others. 

The lack of magic and monstrous creatures in  _ The Secret Garden _ was perhaps the only part of the book he coveted. Sam had yet to meet anyone other than another witch or a vampire, who had visited Rowena at their home on two occasions for reasons unknown to Sam, and Dean had claimed to have met demons before. But sometimes he wished he didn’t know they were real. It was normal knowledge for him but it didn’t prevent fears from sowing themselves into his imagination, just like how someone could be used to the dark but didn’t necessarily mean they didn’t fear what could be in it. He had even convinced himself that his third, and Dean’s sixth, period History teacher was a werewolf. 

Sam squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head as he lifts it from where he’s been resting it against his palm with his elbow propped on his desk. If he doesn’t stop his thoughts where they were then he’d surely be lost there forever, ending up overthinking things and ultimately somewhere he doesn’t want to be. He’s already done his best to forget the incident at lunch. 

He fears it might be too late, unable to focus on the movie anymore. His mind has already begun to feel fuzzy and he can sense the beginnings of a headache. He needs to clear his thoughts somehow. 

As quietly as he possibly can, Sam slinks out of his chair to creep up to the teacher's desk. It feels odd as he walks up the rows of desks, feeling as if everyone is watching him even if they aren’t, as some are quite obviously asleep or passing notes, some even watch the movie intently and taking notes, no doubt the ones who didn’t actually read the book. Yet up at the front he still feels like a large spotlight is on him. 

Sam shakes his head, forcing himself to get over the feeling. He turns his attention to his teacher, some lie about needing to go to the bathroom ready, but barely gets the words, “May I,” out before his teacher, feet propped up on the desk, lounging back in her chair, and her nose in some romance novel, judging by the cover, takes a glance at him then picks up a pen to fill out the hall pass form, ripping it from the glued stack and offering it to him. Sam doesn’t question it, instead, he takes the square yellow paper tentatively, backing up quietly to slip out the door as unnoticed by the rest of the class as he can manage. 

Once out in the hall, the door shut behind him, he almost feels free, similar to a bird who’s been a pet all its life and released out into the wild for the first time, exhilarated yet unsure of his first move. He had a plan prepared to lie to his teacher, to tell her he needed to go to the bathroom, but he had forgotten how lenient she could be, not caring much as long as he was back before class ended and he didn’t disrupt everyone else. He supposed he could still head to the bathroom, not sure if he even had an idea beforehand what he’d do once he was out anyway. 

For a moment his head feels clearer and things seem simpler as he walks down the hall. He watches as he walks as the shadow he casts is twisted from the floor and bent to fit the rest of the shape on the wall of the lockers opposite the tall windows. He even found brief enjoyment in the way his steps interrupt the small dots of shadows cast by the drops of rain lingering on the glass and the patterns they made on the drab linoleum. 

It’s merely short-lived, however, as a violent shiver runs up his spine and he snaps his head upward to view the rest of the long hall, feeling like he’s not alone and an eerie sense of deja vu gnawing at him. Heart sinking when he sees the locker door that hangs open just feet away from him. 

It couldn’t be true, it just  _ couldn’t _ . Sam had spent so long after lunch convincing himself his dream had been just a dream, that it didn’t mean anything, that the thunder, the screams, and the brief power outage had all been coincidence. 

He’s suddenly frozen in place, paralyzed by the fear of what it means. This couldn’t be real, he had to have fallen asleep in class, having some new and twisted up version of the original nightmare. But no matter how lifelike his dreams felt they were never fully perfect imitations, they were cryptic, only illusions of actual things, right here and now it was all undeniably real. 

There’s no blood on the floor, he tells himself in a desperate attempt to quiet the fears slowly overtaking him. In his dream there had been blood on the floor leading him to a body, there was no blood, it couldn’t be the same, he was overreacting, he was thinking far too into it. His dreams have never predicted anything before, why would they start now? There wasn’t a single logical reason for it in his head.

His feet feel like lead as he forces himself forward, breathing short and unsteady, spurred onward by the need to know, to face his fears and look inside, it was the only way he was going to be able to calm himself, to be sure it wasn’t real. He had to know.

“It wasn’t open,” Sam whispers, reminding himself of the exact details of his dream as if it’s some sort of spell, desperately wishing he knew of one to make it all stop or to turn back time so he would never have the class. He should have waited, he only had twenty minutes left before school was over, he could have done it, could have left and gone home, it wouldn’t have been his problem and someone else could be where he was now. 

Sam holds his breath as he nears, stopping inches before the narrow gray metal door that hangs open on its hinge. After counting to three in his head, preparing for the worst, he squeezes his eyes shut and quickly sidesteps it, turning his body so he now stands before it. He counts to three again… and then again… and then once more, finally building up the courage to open them.

He’s pleasantly surprised to find it completely and totally empty. 

A wave of relief washes over him as he breathes a heavy sigh. He truly had been over-exaggerating the situation, it was all in his head, just like he knew it was. He was stupid to think his nightmares could ever predict things. He was a witch, not a psychic. 

Feeling pounds lighter, a huge weight having been lifted off of his shoulders, Sam reaches out to close the locker as he would on a finished book, finally putting any of his fears to rest. A simple push and it shuts with a rather loud clang that echoes through the hall, the force being almost too much with his still shaky hands, being just hard enough that it causes its neighbor to fly open. 

His attention is immediately drawn to it, falling backward in shock and a terrified scream forcing its way from his throat.

He had been wrong, oh how he had been so terribly wrong. As Sam stares up at the pale body whose eyes, partly obscured by a foggy plastic bag wrapped around the head, gaze down upon him in waring, he knows now that his dreams can predict things and he was a fool to think they couldn’t as he’s overcome with the fear of what it could now mean for him. 

For the most part, the rain has stopped, now only a light mist that blows in from the ocean a handful of miles outside of town. Its left thick droplets of water dotting his window. Sam watches as the heavier ones race down the glass pane, practicing the bits of telepathy he’s already learned to influence the drops to collide with the ones he wants. It’s difficult, magic would always be for someone who wasn’t born to it and didn’t draw from a demon’s power, but it was better than remembering. 

Pushing himself to practice magic, to force himself to focus every aspect of his mind on the little bits of water and what it took to move them, kept him from remembering the boy’s pale face. It helped him to not think about how his scream had drawn the attention of every class along the hall, how his English teacher had pulled him away from the frightening sight, even if it had been too late and he had already seen it. He had seen dead bodies before when he slept, but his dream hadn’t prepared him in the least for the real thing. 

Mark Thomas was a senior, just like Dean, they even had the same fourth-period math class. Sam didn’t know him, had never met him until he saw him in his dream and then for real that afternoon. An officer told him who he was after he shook his head to confirm he didn’t know him. The police had asked him so many other questions, though none he could verbally answer. He couldn’t form the words, still in shock and only able to shake his head ‘yes’ or ‘no’ as they played what had to be the worst version of twenty questions in history. 

He doesn’t like to think that it could have been Dean he found like that. He had dreams of his brother’s death in the past, it so easily could have been his brother. He has to force that thought away, trying desperately to reassure himself by remembering that Dean was almost a full witch now, he could handle himself. He’d never be overpowered long enough to be killed. He repeated it over and over in his head, changing his wandering imagination to picture Dean successfully fighting off an attacker instead of being bested by the faceless culprit. 

He knows he’s no longer alone when he hears the door open with a soft click of the knob being turned, her reflection slowly coming into view in the window as she enters the room. 

Sam had wondered how long she’d be. She wasn’t home when Dean drove them back from the police station and if anything he was disappointed. Earlier that morning he hadn’t wanted to talk to her but when he got back he wanted nothing more than for her to help him understand why it had all happened. He wondered when she had arrived, he didn’t remember seeing her car pull up the drive and he had been sitting at his window since he got home, surely he would have noticed. Though, maybe he wouldn’t have, not while he was at war with his thoughts that seemed to never end these days. 

The hand Rowena places on his shoulder is comforting. He sits in the silence, breathing deeply and relishing in the first bit of true safety he’s felt all afternoon. When he doesn’t immediately acknowledge her, she gently squeezes it then trails her hand down his shoulder-blade to rest in the middle of his back. When he finally looks up at her from where he sits, he’s greeted with the same pure promise of protection from all evil things that he’s grown up knowing. Even after today, she had never let him down. 

“Here,” She says softly, her warmly familiar accent soothes his very being, making him wonder if it was magic or his fondness for the woman who’s raised him, “This one should help,” she holds out a long and thick black wax candle in offering. 

Sam is slow to accept it. Black candles were typically used by witches for binding magic and more frequently for protection and repelling any negativity. He knew she offered it because the dreams had become bad enough that the little ritual with the white candle no longer had any sort of effect if it ever did at all. If he accepts it then he’s forced to face the fact that his dreams are no longer just dreams. And yet he still takes it, handling it gingerly and placing it on the window sill among an array of rocks and crystals he kept there, knowing he can’t deny something if it could potentially provide a solution. 

“I saw him in my dream last night,” Sam says softly, sure that Dean has told her what happened and that she knows, if she didn’t then she wouldn’t have brought the candle, “I knew he was going to die before it happened. Except… I didn’t actually know it was gonna happen,” maybe if he knew he had the potential for such a dream he could have saved him.

“There’s nothing you could have done,” she tells him, perching on the spot next to him, for the first time he doesn’t believe her and he opens his mouth to argue, to explain all the ways he already thinks he could have done better, but she stops him, “I know we’ve discussed prophetic dreams before, and though I didn’t think you were capable of them then I do believe you are now,” an expression of shock crosses his features followed by confusion and soon helpless dismay. How could she say he couldn’t have done anything if he was able to have dreams that predicted the future? He doesn’t have to wonder long as she continues, a hint of urgency and sincerity in her words, “But that does not mean that you should go about trying to change what you see. Often times they are to prepare you, not to warn you, as changing what they show you can have dire effects on what happens after.” 

“Oh,” He whispers, bringing his gaze back to his window. Though he made it sound as if he understood he didn’t, he couldn’t understand what good it was to have a power he couldn’t use to help people. Perhaps that was the difference between psychics and prophetic dreams. 

Rowena is quiet a moment and out the corner of his eye he can see that she wears an expression as if she’s considering her next words carefully, and when she does speak it’s slow and drawn out, every syllable is calculated, “I have reason to believe that your dreams are the darkness I mentioned during our last discussion,” 

Sam wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or not. He had worried about it when she first brought it up, forgetting about the private conversation until he had another one of his dreams. She had told him of a certain dark energy he had carried with him since the day he and Dean had come to live with her. Even now he wasn’t sure what it meant, only that it seemed serious enough that she didn’t seem sure of herself with the admittance that it was due to the dreams. 

Yet she still smiles, undoubtedly hoping to cheer him up and put any of his lingering fears to rest, and she pats his back as she stands to leave, pausing before her exit to point at the candle on the window sill to say, “Light it, it should help.”

He watches her go, wondering if Dean had been on the other side and if he’ll come in after her to check on him. Though she closes the door, Sam still waits, allowing a few minutes to be sure whether or not his brother will visit him next. Long seconds of silence pass and nothing happens, so he turns back to his window to stare at the candle.

He should get up and go to his desk to fish out the pack of matches that lie in the topmost drawer with the rest of his items for spellwork. But he doesn’t move, only focuses his stare on the unburnt wick, increasing the intensity until his eyes water.

When a small flame erupts out of nothing and sticks to the wick he isn’t as surprised as he should be. He’s done it before, even if he shouldn’t be able to. He knows he’s not a natural-born witch and elemental magic needs to be done with spells as far as he’s concerned, but roughly four days before now he’s learned he can summon fire from nothing if he tries hard enough. 

The flame burns brightly, gently swaying as it finds purchase, charring the gathered threads as goes, heat already beginning to melt the soft wax. Sam finds a sort of peace in watching it steady itself. For the first time all day, he has no other thought than the flame, the gentle heat seems to warm the colder parts of his mind and drives away the nasty things it harbors there. Perhaps its magic had already begun to work.

**Author's Note:**

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